


Secure in his arms

by NumberThirteen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Sherrinford, Roleplay, TLC, Tenderness, recovering from trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 02:02:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22008142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NumberThirteen/pseuds/NumberThirteen
Summary: Sherrinford cast long shadows over Mycroft Holmes. He finds an unusual form of emotional security in the arms of Gregory Lestrade.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 3
Kudos: 34





	1. Shadows

Sherrinford cast a long shadow. Gregory Lestrade kept the promise he had made to a traumatised consulting detective, and took the time to look after Mycroft Holmes. A strong working relationship based on the twin principles of Sherlock-wrangling and maintaining law and order, had grown into a friendship, which itself morphed into a stronger bond of affection and romance.

The relationship between the two men was still in its infancy; one man overcoming his (now ex) wife’s infidelity and betrayal, and the other unable to give everything of himself while he was recovering from the events at Sherrinford and the ensuing fall out with his parents. Gregory was content to wait. To support. To be there however Mycroft needed him.


	2. Realisation

The coffee table was almost empty, apart from two partially drunk mugs of tea and a knitted pair of socks. The socks contained the feet of Gregory Lestrade. The rest of Gregory was ensconced on a sofa, not a new one, nor a particularly old one either. Just old enough to have been shaped into perfect comfort and back support by a detective inspector who habitually sat in the same spot every day as it had the best view of the television.

There was a new set of divots forming in the sofa’s cushions, next to the ones that corresponded in shape and size to Gregory’s backside. Mycroft Holmes would not have countenanced using the word “snuggle” to describe what he was doing, but as a word, it was a perfect descriptor. Mycroft was snuggled into Gregory’s right side, one leg curled slightly under him for support and balance, the other snaking down the length of the sofa. Together they lay there, their closeness and silent company providing Mycroft with the stability and security he no longer received, either from his political position, or his parents.

Mycroft eventually broke the silence, shifting slightly as he spoke, “I met with Sherlock today,” he said, “We talked about how to handle our parents. He suggested I take them to another Lloyd-Webber travesty. As penance.”

Gregory, for he was always Gregory to Mycroft - never Greg, huffed a quiet chuckle, knowing both the Holmes brothers’ distaste for musicals. Gregory squeezed Mycroft’s shoulders gently, indicating that he should continue.

“I think that the look I gave him, quickly disabused him of that notion, but since we all visited... There... For them to see Eurus, they haven’t forgiven me. They certainly do not trust me any more. And my position at work is no less precarious. I have heard rumours... Early or medical retirement, reduced responsibilities, reduced clearance levels, more oversight...” Mycroft’s voice faltered. So much of his self-esteem was tied up in his position, his power, his responsibilities. 

Gregory’s arm rested on Mycroft’s shoulders, a comforting and grounding weight. A physical reminder that he wasn’t alone. Gregory’s voice was low, slightly gravelly from his recently restarted cigarette habit.

“What’s stopping you from creating your own exit plan?” the silver haired man mused, “You’re on sick leave for another few weeks. You can tell them what you want them to do. Quit. Go part-time. Be a self-employed national security consultant. Don’t forget you’re an asset. Your brain is amazing, and they’re fools if they decide to get rid of you. And I think they know that.”

Mycroft smiled at his partner’s assessment of the situation, “True,” he replied, “I had spread my influence across a wide part of the civil and security services. It would be difficult to just replace me...”

“Exactly,” came Gregory’s response, “It’s your brain, your job, your call. And while you’re off sick, you can decide what you want to do.”

Mycroft leant forward, snagging his mug of tea from the table, before leaning forward again, to get Gregory’s mug. The small pout that had taken up residence on Gregory’s face vanishing as his mug was passed to him. The tea and the pout were indicators that the blanket of melancholy that had hung over the two men was beginning to lift. Gregory was, by now, attuned to what Mycroft needed from him after these low moods. Silliness. Joy. Levity. Things that his damaged love hadn’t enjoyed for a long time, perhaps even ever.

Gregory shifted in his seat, feet leaving the coffee table for their usual place, flat on the floor. As he shifted, he rearranged Mycroft’s position, so Mycroft’s head lay on Gregory’s lap, calloused fingers gently ruffling through short, auburn hair. The mugs were put back on the coffee table. Mycroft allowed Gregory to manhandle him, years of situational awareness training and distrust of others put aside for the man who cared about him. Who loved him. Who trusted him.

The mood was lifting and Gregory wanted it to lift further. The fingers of his right hand drifted from Mycroft’s hair towards the nape of his neck. The sensitive nape of Mycroft’s neck, that when kissed, would make him squirm with lustful delight. The sensitive nape of Mycroft’s neck, that when tickled, would make him squeal and wriggle with no sense of decorum or respectability. Mycroft squealed and wriggled, his dignity lost and temporarily forgotten. His breath caught in between the squeals and laughter. As Gregory’s assault on Mycroft’s neck abated, the erstwhile tickler gathered his partner close and dropped quick kisses to the side of Mycroft’s face.

“Who’s my civil servant?” laughed Gregory, “Who’s my clever secret agent?” Mycroft’s breaths were coming easier, the hysterical giggles replaced by a feeling of childish joy, so long suppressed, kindled back into life by the antics of a caring, loving, big-hearted man. “Who’s my Mycroft? Who’s my good boy?”

Mycroft stilled. Silent. Gregory looked down at the man on his lap. So still. So silent.

“Mycroft? Darlin’? What is it?”

The answer was not quick in coming, but when it did, it was quiet. Matter of fact.

“You asked if I was your good boy. I think that I liked that. Being your good boy. I did not expect that.”

**Author's Note:**

> If it isn't amazingly obvious to you, I am not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat or Mark Gatiss. That means I do not own any of the characters in the Sherlock Holmes or Sherlock canon, no matter how much I might wish I did. I'm just playing with them for fun and will dust them down and put them back when I'm finished. Honest.


End file.
